


With Shifting Change

by Ladycat



Series: With Shifting Change [1]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Friendship, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, M/M, genderbending - sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 23:53:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Yes, yes,” he snaps, “we’re all aware that I have a stunning new set of annoyances to deal with. And if you don’t stop looking at me like that, I’m going to go into exact detail in just how much they hurt right now!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Shifting Change

Elizabeth stares when the shimmering blue circle discharges Colonel Sheppard, followed by a strange blonde woman carrying a nervous-looking toddler. The child is all big eyes with long, wispy caramel-colored hair that falls over her face, making it impossible to get a good look at her.

“Colonel Sheppard, what’s going on here?” The last time she’d said that it was _Major_ Sheppard and they’d barely spoken more than five words to each other, but the tone is pretty much the same—strident and worried and wary. They can’t really afford more refugees even now, two and half years later. “Who is this?”

The woman glares at her, shifting the child impatiently against her hip. A tumble of red-blonde curls—strangely familiar—frame an oval face, the pink flush on her cheeks heightening the startling pale blue of her eyes. “Oh, please, not you, too. I know why _these_ practical jokers are doing it, but shouldn’t you be above that?”

She gapes. It’s not politic, or polite, but she can’t help it. “Rodney?”

“Please, like you had to _guess?”_

* * *

Carson’s fluttering. He always does when nervous, things like wringing his hands and not quite touching people on the shoulder. His voice is high and womanish—which, hey, right now, _ouch_ —is something he probably wasn’t taught in medical school, but hey, he also wasn’t taught anything that could possibly be helpful in this situation, so it’s reality: 2, medical school: 0.

Rodney rubs his forehead. He tries to, anyway—the sudden introduction of breasts (fairly large, from his panicked check in the jumper) knock his arm mid-journey, and compensating throws off his brand new center of gravity, making him lurch awkwardly on the bed. “Stop it,” he snaps at Sheppard, who had immediately bumped his shoulder gently, correcting his balance and giving him something warm and solid to steady himself against. “That’s entirely inappropriate.”

Both eyebrows go up. Sheppard’s bouncing on his toes, when he isn’t playing body-check with Rodney, swaying back and forth in an oddly soothing rhythm, patting Teyla’s back as he calms her. “McKay. You’re a woman.”

“Would you do something like that for one of your men?” Rodney asks, stiffening in ways that makes him lurch and sway _again_ , and dammit, why the hell do men and women have such different centers of gravity? This is ridiculous! He should be able to _sit still_ without making a bumbling fool of himself. “Regardless of gender? Because if you say yes, you would, then you are a _filthy_ liar.”

Well, he might do it for someone he’s… whatever it is they’re doing. Not that Rodney’s thinking about that. Tears and bitter recriminations about lost appendages lay that way, and he’s promised himself that he _is not thinking about it_. At least not until he’s in private. And Sheppard is far, far away. 

Like off planet. 

“Just tryin’ to be helpful.” Adopting a dignity he absolutely doesn’t have—he looks like a moron with his chin up like that, forehead crinkling into an attempt at smug superiority—Sheppard goes back to stroking Teyla’s hair, murmuring softly as she snuffles into his shoulder.

Rodney suppresses a flash of sympathy. He doesn’t know why she’s so upset. Teyla got the better deal, he’s sure of it.

If she would only stop _crying_.

Elizabeth’s sitting on the bed across from him. Her legs dangle, black, pointy-toed boots reflecting the light as they go back and forth. Rodney wants to say something—oh, my god, how many irritants can one m— _person_ take before insanity occurs?—but she looks so blank-faced confused, shoulders actually slumping, that he refrains. “Carson?”

Carson looks up from his tablet guiltily; probably hoping everyone would go on ignoring him, Rodney decides uncharitably. It wouldn’t be hard, not with three different nurses buzzing around to poke this and snatch a vial of some kind of fluid from that, and Sheppard pacing back and forth when he’s not doing the bouncy thing. Ronon completes the picture, lounging against the wall between Rodney and Elizabeth’s bed. His eyes haven’t moved from either Rodney or Teyla yet.

At least he’s not growling anymore.

“I.” Carson looks haggard. They all do, really, but Carson in particular. In a vague, distant sort of way Rodney’s starting to worry about him. After all, if Rodney’s noticing it, then the sun and the moon and the stars above have already had fairly lengthy conversations about the issue. “Elizabeth, I’ve no idea.”

Rodney huffs. This time, he manages to bring both hands up to his face without bumping them against his breasts, letting him shift the world into wonderful, fantastic darkness for a moment. “Okay,” he says to his palms. “Let’s start with what we _can_ figure out, can you do that, Carson? You’re supposedly a scientist, start with empirical data. Am I—I mean, is it—”

He’s been through every scanner or test Carson can think of. He’s probably lost liters of blood, but if it means he can switch back, he’ll happily donate more. Carson should have some kind of information from all that, even if it’s not what Rodney wants to hear.

“Aye. As near as I can figure out—which isn’t much, at the moment—it’s not just a, um. A cosmetic change. You’re biologically female, but essentially the same person.”

“Essentially how?” Elizabeth asks.

“Meaning just about everything else is the same. This body is the same age as he is, the DNA’s the same—except for certain alleles, anyway—and, given the data I’ve collected from when Jeannie was here, he’s following her patterns exactly.”

Her patterns? Rodney peeks through his fingers. “My cholesterol?”

“And your hypertension, aye, both are down. Still a wee bit high, for a woman your age, Rodney, but better than before.”

It’s a sign of how screwed up all of this is that Carson’s attempt at humor is, well, funny. And reassuring. Rodney makes sure to roll his eyes, though.

“What about his allergies and stuff?” Sheppard wants to know.

Carson just shrugs. “I won’t know without the rest of the tests coming back.” Behind him, a machine munches blue and gold data. “But at a guess, I’d say they’ll be the same, along with his hypoglycemia as well as any other specific ailments and conditions. He _is_ Rodney, with all the things that make up Rodney physically.”

“Just female.”

Rodney kicks at Sheppard, scowling. Damn him and his delicate burden, preventing Rodney from enacting his righteous vengeance with much leg-buckling and arm-flailing. Rodney’s gotten _good_ at finding the sweet-spot right at the back of Sheppard’s knee. “Yes, yes,” he snaps, “we’re all aware that I have a stunning new set of annoyances to deal with. And if you don’t stop looking at me like that, I’m going to go into exact detail in just how much they _hurt_ right now!”

“What about Teyla?” Elizabeth doesn’t seem to register what Rodney’s talking about, which is fortunate. For Rodney. She’s made it pretty clear that Rodney’s fascination with breasts—and wow, does he really, really regret that now; they _ache_ —is not something she will tolerate. “She’s not—she’s still female, right?”

Carson’s expression softens. Oh, that just figures. Of _course_ it softens for Teyla. He’d so been right, because he’s always right, Rodney thinks viciously, trying to generate as much righteous anger as he can. She got the better deal, hands down.

“Again, noting that this is mostly supposition based on what results I’ve gotten so far—”

“Yes, yes, Carson, get on with it!”

Carson doesn’t even bother giving Rodney a quelling look. His attention is entirely focused on Teyla, the soft-hearted bastard. “From what I can tell, it’s exactly the same. She’s still Teyla, in all the ways that can’t be altered.”

“Just that she’s a toddler,” Elizabeth sums up. Her stunned expression melts as Teyla shifts in Sheppard’s arms, snuggling deeper with a tiny yawn.

Rodney just knows he’s going to hate Teyla before this is over. She’s got half the infirmary wrapped around her teeny, tiny little finger and she hasn’t even fully awakened yet.

“I’d say she’s at least thirty six months, if not forty two, minimum, so not quite a toddler, no. She could be as old as five, actually. She’s always been on the petite side, our Teyla, and it wouldn’t surprise me at all if she’s been so all her life.”

Something concrete to think about has always been Elizabeth’s way of dealing with things. “Perhaps we should contact the Athosians? There aren’t many elders, but perhaps one of them remembers Teyla when she was this young? I don’t doubt your skills as a pediatrician, Doctor Beckett, but I would like some assurance that she isn’t suddenly malnourished or—” She stops. “Is there a problem, gentlemen?”

Rodney appreciates that no one has called him by a female pronoun yet, but that doesn’t stop him from bridling further under her regard. “Yes. Yes, there is.”

Ronon’s growling again, pitched forward from the wall like he wants to snatch Teyla out of Sheppard’s grasp. If he tries, Rodney wishes him luck; Sheppard looks like the only way he’s releasing her is from his cold, dead, lifeless arms. Possibly cut off.

How he manages to do that without squeezing Teyla into a new bout of tears, Rodney can only guess.

Carson looks just as bewildered by their reaction. “While I’d be happy to speak to someone who knew her then, Elizabeth, I have been taking care of the Athosian children for the past three years. They’ve had quite the population boom, too, but even without that, I can state with medical certainty that whatever else has gone on, Teyla’s not suddenly malnourished or ill. She’s perfectly healthy, in fact, just like her adult self. Only younger.”

Elizabeth nods, but she keeps her eyes on the three of them. “I can see that my next proposal is going to be vetoed immediately, isn’t it?”

Crossing his arms will probably only result in a comedy of errors, so Rodney braces his hands against the bed, leaning forward. Oh, my god, they _sway_. “Yes. It is. And given our collective history of obeying orders when we deeply, fervently believe otherwise is pretty damned abysmal, Elizabeth, I’d save yourself the need to call us up for insubordination, because not a _chance_ is that happening.”

Pursing her lips, Elizabeth does cross her arms—hey, _under_ the breasts, okay, he can probably do that—and glares right back. “Atlantis is not equipped to handle a child, Rodney. I’m not even sure it’s equipped to handle _you_ , but you’re too valuable to send to the mainland!”

He flushes. He can feel it, hot and prickly on his face, making his eyes sting in the sudden heat, and he hates it as viciously as he hates that he’s reacting at all. A sudden bump on his shoulder makes him start, Sheppard abruptly slouching on the bed next to him while Ronon is large and hovering much closer and glaring directly at Elizabeth.

Even Rodney has problems with a direct glare from Ronon. It’s unnerving.

Elizabeth falters, patently surprised by the way ranks have closed against her. To her credit, though, she gets it pretty quickly. “That’s not what I meant, Rodney, please don’t be overly emotional—”

“Overly _emotional?”_ he repeats, voice spiraling up into the kind of falsetto he only sometimes reached on his most hysterical of days, which is humiliating in fabulous, brand new ways, but he brushes that off. “While I’m well aware of what I look like and need _no_ reminders on what I probably sound like right now, I am reacting the same way I _always_ react and the fact that you’re now appending gender stereotypes to it says a great deal more about _you_ than _me!”_

He’s panting, furious and upset, and he can feel a rant of epic proportions bubbling under a suddenly much pokier chest—when something warm is thrust against him. “Rodney, here.”

“What? What are you—oh, oh, yes, okay.” The rant dissolves like soap bubbles in the sun, Rodney’s attention firmly caught by Teyla, still mostly asleep, only murmuring quietly as she’s transferred from Sheppard’s shoulder to Rodney’s. He arranges her, making sure her legs aren’t bent awkwardly in the scrub-top she’s wearing, belted like a dress, one in his lap, the other laying limp against his back. She sighs, arm tucked securely around his neck, snuggling into him the exact way she’d snuggled into Sheppard.

It’s a bizarre sensation, but Rodney kind of likes it. She’s warm and pleasantly malleable, molding herself around him like a softly breathing blanket, the quick, steady beat of her heart making the tense muscles in Rodney’s back relax a little.

He doesn’t like children. He’s still very sure of that. God knows what he’s going to do when she starts the inevitable snotty, messy business that is the mark of all children everywhere.

But this is _Teyla_ , not a random, disgusting child. Having her trust him with her fragile, confused body—and it’s only the three of them who are allowed to touch her without hysterics; she can cry _very loudly_ —makes him feel smug and melty at the same time.

“Very well,” Elizabeth says in her best auctioneer’s final-sale voice.

Rodney looks up, belatedly realizing that a whole conversation has gone on without him. Sheppard is doing his not-a-pout, not-a-glower-thing, still sitting protectively close to Rodney. That’d be annoying if Rodney wasn’t so entranced with tiny, trusting Teyla, but he is, so he’ll let it pass for now. Besides, as bizarre as all of this is—it’s actually normal behavior from Sheppard, when something’s really wrong with Rodney. Granted ‘really wrong’ is something that Sheppard defines no matter how loudly Rodney lists reasons to the contrary, but it’s familiar and expected in its own, confused way.

“Good,” Sheppard says firmly. “I assume we’re grounded until we figure out what’s wrong with Rodney and Teyla and how to change them back, anyway, so it won’t make that much of a difference.”

Elizabeth raises an eyebrow, suddenly very smug and sure of herself. “Really? I hate to be the one to say this, Colonel, but taking care of a child—”

“—is nothing I haven’t done before,” Sheppard finishes, just as sure and smug, even if it does make him look like he’s swallowed a lemon. “Carson, you’ll want to keep both of them here for observation?”

Rodney wants to protest, but he’s slowly becoming aware that he is very, _very_ tired. His eyelids have weights tied onto them, somehow, and words turn liquid and formless in his ears. It’s Teyla’s fault, probably. Something Jeannie once said makes him grumble quietly at her, annoyed that the steady, sleepy rhythms she’s lost in are communicating themselves to Rodney. He doesn’t want to sleep, he wants to go over Carson’s incomprehensible voodoo, maybe get Radek in so they can try and figure out what the hell happened and how to make it go away, because Rodney is absolutely _not_ going to remain a woman—really, the very thought is ludicrous even for a _Twilight Zone_ episode. 

“Aye,” Carson says, the smile in his voice making Rodney even more grumpy. “I’ve more tests I want to run, and it’s a good idea to monitor their condition at least twelve hours more, make sure there’re no nasty surprises waiting for us.”

Oh, Carson and his wonderfully pessimistic view on life.

“Good,” Sheppard says, completely ignoring his duty to rant at Carson for Rodney, who can’t seem to open his mouth. “Ronon, will you—”

“Of course. Whose?”

Rodney hates when he doesn’t understand conversations, particularly when the Mountain Man suddenly gets this _in_ to Colonel Sheppard’s mind and Rodney’s left floundering because he’s missing three words in five as they do their weird telepathic, military thing.

“Hers, I think. I’ve gotta run to the—”

“Course. Uh. You might want to—”

Rodney opens his eyes long enough to see the rest of the audience—Elizabeth and Carson and the nurses who are obviously eavesdropping as they fold and re-fold the same bandages—looking as confused as Rodney is. That’s mollifying, at least. At least if he’s confused, he’s not unique in his confusion. He leans his cheek against Teyla’s head, breathing in the same spicy, almost sandalwood-like scent that’s hers no matter how old she is. Maybe its her shampoo? Because he doesn’t think their physiologies are all that different and human kids rarely smell _spicy_.

It’s good, though. Familiar and comforting and he noses into her hair, wanting more of it.

“McKay. Hey, McKay.” 

Rodney blinks, staring up at Sheppard. “Uh. Am I on my back?”

“Christ, that’s too damned easy,” Sheppard mutters, then, “yeah, McKay, time for you and the tiny dancer here to go to sleep, okay? I’ve got some things to take care of, but Ronon’ll be here the whole time. He’ll make sure the rest of Atlantis doesn’t try and take a peek.”

Oh. Right. Rodney-the-girl and Teyla-the- _little_ -girl are probably going to be a big hit with the rest of the city. A big, noisy, stare-y hit, complete with greedy, grabbing eyes and whispers Rodney’s way too tired to try and decipher, let alone shout back imprecations about the whisperer’s ancestry.

“Hey, McKay. Rodney—dammit! Carson, is he supposed to be crashing this fast?”

“I’m surprised it’s taken this long, honestly, Colonel. Whatever’s been done to them, their bodies are seriously depleted—like they’ve run a marathon, maybe, over the course of several days instead of the hour you say they were gone. And yes, bloody hell, don’t look at me like that; of course one of the reasons I want to keep Rodney here is his—er, her—er—the hypoglycemia. There’s no danger yet, but I don’t want him crashing unexpectedly while he sleeps, something we can monitor for him.”

Rodney makes a furious noise. He’s a _he_ , no matter how big his breasts or how lacking his cock, and oh, he promised himself he wasn’t going to think of that, yet. It’s too painful to contemplate.

Something pinches into his arm. That makes Rodney open his eyes—when had they closed?—blinking blearily up into Sheppard’s and Carson’s worried faces. “I’ll take care of it, okay?” Sheppard says, oddly insistent. “I’ve got it.”

Rodney has no idea what Sheppard’s talking about, but that’s okay. Sheppard’s strange sort of half-intelligence and competence is something Rodney’s been relying on for three years now. He can do so a little bit longer. Besides. Even if Sheppard’s gone, Ronon is still there, a silent, watchful presence that’s not as creepy as it should be, not a scarecrow or a lifeless, eyeless statue, but a guard dog’s affectionate vigilance. Rodney knows Ronon would do _anything_ for Teyla, especially tiny Teyla, and since she’s snuggled up in his arms, breathing warm and steady against his neck, he’s defaulted into that protection.

“I won’t be long, McKay. Promise.” 

A gentle touch first to Teyla’s head, fingers flicking against his chin as her hair is smoothed back, then Rodney’s shoulder, heavy and familiar, are the last things he’s conscious of.

* * *

“Are you honestly trying to tell me that having a female boss is _worse_ than having a male one? Because if so, please recall that I don’t throw anything away, including your detailed graph, flow-chart, and _ten-page memo_ proving why all my failures stem from the fact that I have a _dick!”_

Radek winces, waiting for the inevitable smash of something delicate and probably irreplaceable. Rodney’s aim has never been good, but now it is much, much worse. That Rodney is aware of this development cause even more drama; he does not like being perceived as weak.

“Neither that, or my new _tits_ ,” Rodney shouts, voice normally deeper than most of the women here on Atlantis, but now painfully high-pitched in rage, “have _anything_ to do with my _brain_ , which is _just fine thank you_ , which you should know since _that’s the same argument you used with me two months ago!”_

 _Thunk_ It is something large and heavy that is thrown this time, thumping down into a messy heap. At least there is no shatter or rain of costly, tiny fragments; only the dull thud of something probably not metal cracking. Cracks are often repairable, particularly if it’s the chair Rodney has decided to use, his old one strangely uncomfortable with this new body.

Since Radek thinks much of Rodney’s irritation is due to the chair—and not just his fury that he must find a new one—it is no great loss if he is right.

“So.” Colonel Sheppard sidles up, leaning against the wall. The wall well outside of Rodney’s view, just in case he happens to glance away from Simpson. That is doubtful, since it has reached the red-faced, vein-throbbing level, but precautions are always necessary with Rodney. “How’s he settling down?”

Adjusting his glasses, Radek shrugs. “Two marines called him ‘ma’am’ today. Several scientists are having difficulty approaching a boss who is, according to the banished Doctor Lee, hot, while every single female scientist seems to think this change will somehow benefit them. I do not believe they have any idea what the benefits might be, aside from a greater understanding of the mystery of cramps and the occasional, desperate need for chocolate.”

Radek’s always been mystified that the craving for chocolate is, to the American mind, strictly for women. It is a hormone induced craving, yes, sometimes, but it is not only women who have this need. Radek himself occasionally finds comfort and release in the rich smoothness of his precious stash of Milky Way bars, and thinks no less of himself—or most of the men he grew up with, either—because of it. 

American men suppress much. Too much, perhaps. Where is the shame of wanting sugar and caffeine, whatever its form?

“Huh. And he’s not?” Sheppard tips his head back, eyes narrowed as he looks down his crooked, too-big nose. “Different?”

Radek does not shrug, simply continues working on the program he needs to finish before Rodney is done screaming and therefore ready for it. “Of course not. I do not practice his belief that all medicine is voodoo so I am aware that there are physiological reasons for much of who we are and how we react—but personality is greater than that. The sum of all its parts, memories and experiences and thoughts, not just base secretions. He is Rodney. That has not changed, just because he looks different.”

He looks _pretty_ , although Radek will never say this to Rodney. He would react very, very poorly, no matter how much he might enjoy the compliment—a reason why the unfortunate Doctor Lee has been shunned by those who are not stupid. His punishment, working as the janitor for the indefinite future, will keep everyone else away, too.

But for all Radek does not wish for someone to say this to Rodney, that does not change the fact that he _is_ pretty. His skin a bit fairer and smoother now that there is less testosterone to roughen it, his shape as curvy as his sister’s. He does not have Elizabeth’s sharp beauty, or Teyla’s fluid grace—a thing she has retained no matter what her age—but there is a simple, contented prettiness to him, the kind that needs no glamour or bright starlight to make it shine. It is earthy and genuine. Radek’s favorite kind.

Points are detracted for his hair, which Rodney keeps in a severe pony-tail no matter how many ladies have offered to help him care for it. Rumor has it that only a plea from Teyla stopped him from cutting it off entirely. Radek is not certain that is the truth, but his efforts to discover what really happened behind Sergeant Harrison’s closed door—she treats her defacto position as barber as solemnly as Heightmeyer treats hers and tells _no one_ what is said in her presence—have been fruitless so far.

He is patient, though. He will find out.

“I dunno,” Sheppard muses, shifting so that he can continue watching Rodney rant and bustle throughout the lab. “I don’t think he looks all that different.”

This would mean more, Radek thinks but does not say, if the Colonel’s eyes were not glued to Rodney’s ass.

Although, to be fair, Radek himself is aware that said ass is only minutely different from the one before. The new flare of Rodney’s hips gives it a slightly rounder shape, but truly, that is the only marked change.

“I know what you mean,” he says aloud, because he does. Rodney is not his shape, or his clumping, too-heavy footsteps, even more awkward as he slowly relearns how to walk and hold himself. He is not the timbre of his voice, or the color of his lips, fuller and softer, if still crooked.

He is enthusiasm—youthful and boyish no matter what shape he is in—the burning desire to know more, to do better, to be the one who has the answers to all of life’s difficulties.

That has not changed. That it is now packaged in something Radek finds more attractive, well, that is something he will not share. It is irrelevant. What is relevant is that the light that brightens Rodney’s face is the same, eyes Atlantis-blue above the too-fast tumble of his words, hands gesturing wildly as his mind goes light years faster than any mortal body can contain. That is the same.

That is Rodney.

He glances up, unsurprised to see Sheppard watching him more than the now-incoherent Rodney. “Yeah,” he says, as if Radek’s thoughts had been spoken aloud. He claps Radek’s shoulder, a rare gesture of support from a man who touches few; Radek is moved, if a little sore. “Like that. You’re a good friend, Radek. And now, I think it’s time we distract Rodney before he gives himself an aneurysm.”

Previously, this would mean the Colonel would brave Rodney’s wrath—or, occasionally, send in a hapless marine to request Rodney’s presence in the mess hall, or the ’jumper bay, wherever the Colonel thought best; on his most cowardly days a radio-call that the whole lab would listen to with interest. Now, it means a low, amused chuckle from Ronon, waiting patiently in the hallway, and the quick patter of little feet as Teyla rushes from his arms to Rodney’s.

The four of them are rarely separated for long. Rodney distances himself the most, distracted by his work, but even he cannot go too long without at least one of them by his side. Many theorize that it has something to do with the still-hidden although oft-wondered about details of MXR-181. Others, that the Colonel and Ronon are reverting to their cave-dwelling roots.

That is a favorite theory of almost every woman on base, including Doctor Heightmeyer who should know better.

Radek does know what happened on planet, and his theory is a little of one side, a little of the other, still more from something else entirely. There is a very male, very base possessiveness in the way Sheppard and Ronon hover over their ‘women’, that is true. Rodney grumbles of this increasingly, giving fodder to the rumor that Radek has promised grim death to anyone who _ever_ lets Rodney know what is being said about him.

Part of it is, yes, a reaction from the planet, as well. It was Teyla’s unusual distraction, drawing her and Rodney away from the rest, that resulted in their transformation—as well as, Elizabeth has confided to him privately, a great deal of horrific screaming before they were finally discovered. Neither the Colonel nor Ronon are the kind to deal with their own failures well, even when they know there was nothing that could be done. It was the nature of Rodney and Teyla to be attracted, caught in a twisted, abandoned experiment, the nature of Sheppard and Ronon to be repelled. There is no fault or blame, yet both men find many.

The last reason, Radek does not tell anyone. He doesn’t need to, would they but look as he does.

Rodney is distracted mid-rant by a small hand gripping his pant-leg. The entire lab watches, breath baited, the _aww_ that was expressed the first day held behind clenched teeth. Teyla is a shy child, still as solemn and forthright as her older self, but full of confusion. She retains most of her memories—they cannot check for everything—but she does not understand what she sees, more affected by the body chemistry Radek dismissed not so long ago.

She trusts only three.

Sighing in exasperation, Rodney hefts Teyla onto his hip. “Urchin,” he teases, frown now more for show. Teyla frowns back, contorting her face in grimacing imitation. “I suppose Sheppard’s not far behind, if you’re here.”

“Is he ever?” Radek asks, smirking at the Colonel.

He gets a stuck-out tongue for his trouble.

“I think she’s a bad influence on you,” Rodney says, coming over. “Everyone knows you’re immature, but sticking out your tongue? That’s practically regressing, even for you.”

Teyla has both arms around his neck, smiling happily now that all four of them are together again. What she calls them, father or uncle or simply their names, no one knows—she speaks very little. But Radek comes from a large family, where blood mattered less than closeness and affection. She does not need names for what these men—even Rodney—are to her.

Ronon snorts, reshouldering the satchel he carries. “Pretty sure she doesn’t do that. Ever.”

“Hm, true. Teyla is a lady.” Rodney is prim and proper, and infectious with his need to laugh; that, perhaps, is the greatest of changes. “Unlike me, of course. Since I’m not one, even _with_ the new internal plumbing.”

Teyla giggles, leaning up to whisper something to him. Rodney chuckles, a skill he has not lost in translation, bouncing her lightly in his arms before handing her back to Sheppard. He is her favorite, probably because he is still the only one to handle her without fear.

Radek wishes he could hold her, but does not ask. That lesson everyone learned quickly.

“You are leaving, yes? Good, good, please take Rodney far away and drop him down nearest canyon. He is frightening the help with his bloomers.”

“My what? I do not wear _bloomers_ , my god, does any one even have a pair of those here? Because if so, I suggest a ritual burning. These happen to be standard issue civilian pants,” Rodney splutters, no different at all when he is offended and just as amusing to watch. He tugs at the garment as if to show off its khaki glory. “Just because I had to get them from stores and because I have to borrow everyone’s belts does _not_ mean—”

Laughing, the Colonel and Ronon hustle him down the hallway, Rodney still furiously defending himself. He will rant and rave until something new catches his attention, just as always, and life will resume its normal course. It is reassuring, that such changes are treated as commonplace.

Sighing, Radek looks back at his screen. The program is not complete, another reason why it is good that Rodney will have the afternoon off. He can see without attempting to compile it that he has mistyped many codes and will have to go through the whole thing to fix it.

Annoying, that. This is delicate work, however, and worth the effort: Radek wants Rodney returned to his correct gender, not transformed into something new entirely.

“You still call her a him.” Doctor Koralev is new to the program, and already she rivals Kavanagh for most likely to say the wrong thing at the wrong time. Even Rodney is not as verbally clumsy as she is. But then, Rodney is never as underhanded as she can be.

“Indeed,” Radek snaps, transferring his annoyance to her. She is attempting a coup, everyone knows, and why she has not discovered how little support she has remains a mystery. “Because he _is_.”

“And yet, I noticed the distinct lack of package. Unless it’s migrated north and doubled.”

Radek turns very slowly, looking her up and down. She is a beautiful woman, sparkling where Rodney is merely attractive, tall and willowy and ruthlessly brilliant. She makes a very bad fit in Atlantis, where egos are only as good as the lives you save with them. She has not discovered this, yet. Radek waits for the day she does—he will forge Rodney’s signature happily before waving a hearty goodbye.

“Perhaps you are jealous?” he asks. “Perhaps you would like to join Doctor Lee in his rounds, as well? I hear eau de sewer is the new, hot perfume.”

* * *

Evan knows how to play the game. He’s been with the SGC for almost six years now, and he doesn’t need to see an elephant fly, he’s already seen everything. So when he steps through the gate after an extended mission to see Colonel Sheppard with a kid tucked under his arm, as natural as breathing, he doesn’t bother staring in surprise. He’ll get an explanation when he gets one.

“Sir,” he says, saluting smartly.

Sheppard grins at him, all loose swagger no matter that the kid can’t be more than four or five years old. Evan’s not going to be the one to suggest that maybe such behavior isn’t appropriate for a child that age, that’s too much like his grandmother still complaining about Elvis and his damned hips. Even if Evan’s pretty sure it isn’t.

Not that the kid seems to notice, actually. She’s too busy playing with one of her Athosian necklaces: big, chunky, amber-colored beads that clink gently as she moves them back and forth, like a rosary.

“Have fun playing in the mud?”

Evan grins, falling easily into step with the Colonel. His team is trailing behind him, as darkly crusted as he is. “Yes, sir. Nothing beats a good slice of that pie.”

The Colonel’s laughter isn’t gentle on the ears, but Evan likes it just the same. He’s had too many commanding officers that couldn’t take a joke even when there was nothing but time to make one. “Let me guess—somewhere in that checkered history is a summer or two in mid-America.”

“Pennsylvania,” Evan admits, grinning when Sheppard ducks his head, cheeking the kids’ temple reassuringly. “You don’t get too much mud out in the dust bowl, but back East? Nothing but rain, most summers.”

“Makes me glad I only lived through the winters.”

There’s a story brewing, but Evan doesn’t push. He just walks down the hall, trading jokes and quips with a guy who has yet to acknowledge the kid clinging to him—until Evan comes to an abrupt stop.

The picture looks familiar at first glance. The transporter’s dead, wires and cables spilling out like a messy, upended toy chest, smoke hazing the flood of words—three different languages, at a guess—as at least six people go between the transporter and a wall panel across the way. When someone does something and sparks fly—Sheppard instantly turning away so the kid can’t see much—there’s a familiar shout and a familiar barrage of insults.

Only the voice is a lot higher.

A quick glance at the Colonel and Evan understands what’s going on. Actually, no, he’s got no _clue_ what’s going on, but he knows what the Colonel wants him to know and that’s good enough for him. He can always find Radek later. “Sir,” he says, nodding.

The Colonel holds his eyes, his own shifting from brown to green as he stares. More worried than he’s let on, then, but that’s usually the way of it with Sheppard. “There hasn’t been too much talk,” he says, voice low. “But I probably won’t hear half of it.”

Evan nods again. There’s a reason he and Radek have struck up a friendship, and not just because the little weasel has the best gossip on base. “Understood, sir.” He looks back at the frothing mass of scientists, McKay in the thick of it like always, and to distract himself—that’s a _pony-tail_ , coming undone into wispy strands that glow gold in stolen sunlight—starts counting. Coming up one short, he looks back at Sheppard and the kid who’s still riding his hip like it’s the most comfortable seat ever.

Sheppard catches his gaze, lips quirking, and Evan is absolutely, positively _not_ thinking what Sheppard would look like if it was him instead of McKay who got caught in whatever it’d been. How defined and shapely those lips were now, and if they—clearing his throat, Evan looks harder at the kid. She blinks back at him, dark eyes wide and somber. She’s biting her knuckle, teeth leaving tiny indentations in the flesh.

Carefully—Evan’s good around kids and he’s pretty sure he’s reading her right—he reaches out and tugs her hand away. “You shouldn’t do that, Miss Emmagen,” he says. “It’s not good for your teeth.”

Her shy smile is better than Sheppard’s sharp approval.

“Shame on you, Major,” the Colonel says loudly enough that even the scientists—still shouting at each other—can hear. “Forcing the rest of your team to stand here. Poor Devaroux’s practically caked in mud. Get her to the infirmary already!”

Evan just manages to catch the look McKay gives them before diving back into his work.

Ouch. It’s necessary, but McKay sure doesn’t like it, the expression painfully familiar no matter how minutely different the face. Poor Colonel.

“Sir,” Evan raps out, saluting. He’s not in trouble and knows it—Teyla’s giggling at him, her face half-buried in Sheppard’s shoulder, and kids are always the best barometer for this kind of thing. Not that Evan has any doubts, though. “Apologies, sir! Right away, sir!”

If the Colonel wore a hat, Evan knows he’d be swatted with it right about now.

He chivvies his bedraggled teammates towards the infirmary, but hangs back at the last second. Sheppard is perched on a railing, Teyla sitting front-wards on his lap so both of them can watch McKay scurry around, fixing this and that, berating his minions for not being fast enough to keep up with him. Her? Ronon’s on the other end of the melee, occasionally glancing towards Sheppard before he goes back to watching McKay.

Oh yeah. He definitely needs to talk to Radek.

“Sir?” He only gets a head-tilt in acknowledgment, but that’s all he needs. “Sir, if I can—”

“Relax, Major. We’ve handled it the week you were gone, we can handle it now that you’re here. Just makes it a little easier.”

Maybe he needs to talk to Doctor Weir, too. She’s not a gossip, but she’ll have a better idea of where the Colonel might be shirking and where that means trouble. “Yes, sir. Do we know how much longer?”

“A team’s going back to MXR in about a week; something about the moon, I don’t know. Rodney keeps ranting about magic and medieval chanting whenever Radek tries to explain why it has to be delayed. Beckett’s identified what makes the thing turn on, so we know who not to send. You should get yourself checked out, while you’re down there.” Another shower of sparks explodes, more smoke filling the hallway. Teyla looks up anxiously at Sheppard, but a smile and a touch settles her. Rodney’s in his element, even as he’s cursing the breasts that prevent him from shimmying where he needs to shimmy.

There’s a very careful moment of silence after that pronouncement, but everybody gets over it faster than Evan expects. Then again, this is McKay—it’s probably not the first time he’s talked about his new body parts, either in praise of or complaint.

“Radek’s on the list, too. He _says_ that given the stuff Rodney brought back with him, after he went the second time, it’ll be simple. Reprogram the machine, send the two of them back through, hey, presto, everything’s fixed.”

Evan hopes like hell that he’ll meet whatever criteria needed to go back to that planet. Sheppard’s a control-freak, plain and simple, and Evan knows he’s on a damned short list of those trusted to do what Sheppard’s unable to—and it’s no bet that something’ll go wrong. It always does. “Of course, Sir. I’ll get checked immediately.”

“You may want to come back here afterwards,” Sheppard adds with a slow little grin. “The more frustrated he is, the more he forgets he’s got hips that go out or he’s not as strong as he used to be. It’s entertaining.”

Evan grins. And the rest of his old team back home wonders why he loves it out here, scary, over-hanging threat of death and all. “I’ll be right back, sir.”

* * *

They look at him funny. Nothing new; Ronon’s used to people looking at him sideways, like he’s got something in his teeth. This is a little different, though.

He bounces the ball, grinning as Teyla’s hand flashes out, scooping up as many of the green stones as she can.

“Is that—” Elizabeth approaches cautiously. She’s gotten wary around him, but Ronon knows this is more about Teyla. She’s not as comfortable in what’s gone on as McKay, settling back into his place on Atlantis without much of a hitch. She doesn’t _remember_ enough to be comfortable. As far as they can tell, it’s mostly their faces—his, Sheppard’s, McKay’s—that she recognizes. Everything else is a jumble of useless fragments she doesn’t know how to process. It leaves her skittish. “Ronon. Are you playing jacks?”

“You play this?” Lots of things translate from what he knows to what the Atlantians do, but games are a constant confusion. The game with the white and black pieces is _boring_ , and if there’s strategy there, like McKay says, Ronon’s too bored to see it. “It’s called lyria.”

“We have something similar, yes. We call them jacks and we use little metal pieces instead of stones.” Elizabeth sits gingerly, keeping herself closer to Ronon. “She seems to be enjoying it.”

Teyla is, enough that Elizabeth gets only a cursory glance of shy hello before she’s distracted by the stones again. Shiny things don’t usually attract her, but these do. Every time.

Ronon’s not too proud to be grateful _something_ does.

“It’s good training.”

“Ronon.” Elizabeth’s has these weird half-smiles, one side deepening into laugh-lines while the other remains steady. “She’s _three_.”

“Probably four.” She’s small, but she’s too smart for three. He wishes she’d talk more, though. He wants to know what Teyla says and does as a child, if she’s as self-possessed as when she’s an adult. Mostly, they’re lucky if they get a single word. Two strung together is a cause for celebration.

Weird, that he wants to hear her talk so much. Ronon knows people still think that about him.

Elizabeth shakes her head. “Okay, fine, maybe four, but regardless don’t you think she’s a little young to begin training? Besides, this isn’t permanent. Another week and she’ll be an adult again. Who’s to say she’ll even remember this?”

There’s been good news in the labs about what actually happened on that dirt-ball planet and how to fix it. The usually overly cautious Atlantians are pretty sure everything’s reversible—although everyone’s still confused over _why_ the thing exists and what the people who made it were trying to do—and are starting to sound optimistic. Ronon’s not sure what to make of that. He’s not good at optimism. 

He drops the ball again, pleased with Teyla’s quiet, breathless laugh as she snatches as many stones as she can. Her hands are so little; one fits snugly around his thumb. “Okay.”

“Hm. She really likes that, doesn’t she.”

Like Ronon would make her do something she _doesn’t_ like.

“Do you have any games that aren’t a form of training? No, wait, don’t answer that. Of course you don’t.” Elizabeth is smiling, relaxed and playful. Teyla has that effect on people. Ronon never does, but he likes it when people aren’t awkward around him. Surprisingly, she’s good for keeping potential suitors away, too.

He’s not sure why that is. Normally, on Sateda, a man who handles a baby well instantly has many women vying for his attention. Some of Sheppard’s comments indicate this is a universal concept, or at least an American one, but not so with Teyla. Oh, there’s a buzz about children because of her. But no one’s making come-on eyes at Ronon when he’s got Teyla with him.

It’s a relief.

“So where are the other two? I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen you alone, since all this happened.”

Ronon looks at Teyla. She’s watching them, listening carefully; she understands what goes on around her, better than most, just as Teyla as an adult does. “Not alone.”

“Well, no, of course. But.”

It occurs to Ronon, with slowly dawning horror, that Elizabeth is lonely. Teyla is one of her closest friends, everyone knows this, but right now Teyla won’t come within a few feet of her without one of them in tow. Usually that’s Sheppard, which forces the tone to either inconsequential things or to work, and neither of those are things Elizabeth wants to talk about.

This is what Heightmeyer meant, he realizes. He doesn’t like her, but the others give her respect so he had too, going to her office to stare at her silently while she tried to make conversation with him. She’d warned him, in one of their first meetings. His silence would encourage confession.

Maybe he should start talking more.

Teyla’s abandoned her stones, watching them with a familiar tilt to her head. Her hair is curlier now, great tufts that they wrestle with every morning while trying desperately not to pull too hard. Even Sheppard sucks at it. She gets up, stumbling a little over the hem of her pants—they’re a little too big, the only thing the Athosians had on hand that might fit—then holds her hands up to Ronon.

That signal is also universal.

Ronon stands, picking her up to settle her against his side. She sighs, as she always does, burying her face in his hair. Both Sheppard and McKay are starting to complain that their arms feel stretched out and achy from carrying her so often. Ronon thinks McKay’s bitching, at least, is more show than usual: he always looks surprised when Teyla wants him. Always.

Ronon’s not sure why; breasts make a nice pillow. He’s always known that.

Elizabeth hasn’t gotten up yet, staring off into the distance. She looks sad. She’s always busy, working more than even Rodney, who has Sheppard to make him take a break. Getting an idea, Ronon whispers something into Teyla’s ear.

She nods yes.

“Hey. You wanna come with us?”

That makes her start, brought back to reality in ways she didn’t anticipate. “Oh? No, I shouldn’t, thank you, but I have work I should really get back to.”

“Cause Teyla needs her hair brushed and I figure you’d be better at that,” he says, not bothering to let her finish her stock, almost automatic, answer. It never changes.

“I—what?”

Teyla flashes the tiniest of smiles as Ronon carries her towards her room, converted to fit three extra beds even though one of them always sleeps in her bed with her—they rotate who—while Elizabeth climbs to her feet, still asking questions. Her eyes are locked on Teyla, though. And she’s following.

Ronon smiles. These people are weird, but he likes them.

Even if they stare.

* * *

John breathes in slowly, letting it out even slower. He hears Teyla’s voice whenever he does that, mellow and rich instead of breathy and flute-high, the way it is now.

He knows he’s been lucky. The past two weeks have been quiet, unexpected-catastrophe-wise, and things are running as smoothly as they ever do. Most days are good, filled with cajoling Rodney and taunting just about everybody that they can’t play with the new doll-sized Teyla. Her very presence is enough to send Carson scurrying for more condoms and Elizabeth making subtle, public announcements to the effect of _now is not the time for an Atlantis baby-boom, thank you._ He likes those days, which are relatively easy and a hell of a lot of fun.

Some days aren’t.

“Is it too soon to call Ronon back?”

“Yes,” John repeats, teeth gritted because this is a thousand times worse than ‘are we there yet.’ “It’s been barely twenty minutes, McKay. Give the man a break.”

Running a base that does a good job of running itself, especially now that Lorne is back, leaves him with a whole lot of free time—but he _does_ have plenty of work to do, the piles growing with each passing day. When he needs to, he can dump Teyla with Ronon, or send them off to bother McKay at the labs and retreat back to his office. Sometimes he locks the door, sometimes he lets a steady-stream of adults remind him that there’s more going on than playing peeka-boo with a delightedly innocent little girl.

Rodney does the same, although more often it’s the three of them coming to badger him.

Ronon doesn’t have that—suddenly rediscovered—luxury.

And Teyla hasn’t stopped crying in _three hours_.

It’s not even loud crying. John’s not sure what he’d do if she was a bawler, but her steady, unceasing tears and hiccuping sobs has him ready to tear his own hair out. They can’t figure out what she wants: she’s not hungry, or thirsty, or bored, or in need of new clothes—thank _God_ she came potty trained because there are limits to John Sheppard’s skills at child-rearing—and none of the tricks they’ve frantically come up with have worked. She just won’t. Stop. Crying.

It’s a good thing he’s probably never going to have kids, if only two weeks of Teyla is doing this to him. He’ll take on a Wraith bare-handed if it means she smiles at him again, or sleeps longer than a fitful ten minutes. He’d do anything, and right then, he knows he means _anything_.

Just make her stop, please.

“Maybe—maybe we should call Heightmeyer?” Rodney’s sitting on the bed, letting his pants grow dark and damp from Teyla, still absently petting her like it’s going to make a difference. “Or Carson? I don’t know what’s wrong with her, although it’s clear something _is_ , because she won’t stop and I don’t know what to do, I’m horrible with children, I always have been, and she’s just been stringing me along, luring me into a false sense of confidence like I could actually do this, like I could handle a kid I actually _liked_ , which I never do, I never like kids, god _John!”_

Shit. Levering himself out of his chair, John manages a few exhausted steps onto the bed, pulling the Rodney-Teyla bundle back towards his chest and wrapping an arm around both of them. “Shut up,” he growls in Rodney’s ear, rubbing his face along the side of Rodney’s head, where he knows Rodney likes the scrape of his stubble. It leaves Rodney’s skin red and puffy, hot when John kisses it. “Just shut up, okay? Christ, I can’t think with both of you going.”

It feels incredibly strange, sitting like this. Natural, in some ways—it’s not the first time he’s held a woman like this, after all, even if there were never kids involved before. Just tucking her against him, smaller back against his chest, her head on his shoulder while their legs stretched out, flush where they aren’t tangled together.

He’d liked that, once upon a time.

But this is _Rodney_ , not some ex-girlfriend. Even after two weeks, Rodney’s still ‘he’ and ‘him’ in John’s head, and not just because Rodney’s death on anyone he catches forgetting which gender he actually is, all physical evidence aside. He still moves like a man, mostly, jerky and plowing forward, without the more cautious way every woman John’s ever watched seems to have, like they’re so afraid of blundering that they’ll go crab-wise before taking that first big step—even Elizabeth. Rodney’s retained his powerful shoulders, too, if unfortunately not as broad, so he can get away with it. He’s a _guy_. He thinks like one, he acts like one, and John hopes like hell they get this fixed before the month is out, because he’s not sure either of them can handle what might crop up any damned day, now. Rodney can handle breasts. Bleeding and the rest that comes with it? John doesn’t want to be around for that explosion.

“Shut up? Are you honestly telling me to shut up?” Rodney demands shrilly. “I realize that you’ve styled yourself as some kind of _patriarch_ over the last two weeks, with a wife and a baby and a large Ronon on the side, but just in case you’ve _completely lost your mind_ , it is absolutely not going to stay that way even if I have to force Carson to perform transsexual surgery on me. I am _male_.”

Below them, Teyla starts crying louder, true sobs only barely muffled by Rodney’s hip and thigh. John’s not sure if she’s responding to the tone of Rodney’s voice, or the volume, or maybe his own tension, riding high and tight on his shoulders, hard on the hand that cups Rodney’s stomach.

“I know you are.” He could go with the more soothing tone of voice, but he figures that’ll just piss Rodney off more. He’s still sensitive to that kind of thing, to the point where he’s accusing John of flirting in _that way_ , whatever the hell that means, the way he’s apparently never flirted with Rodney before. “Okay? I know you are, Rodney, and I _want_ you to be.”

If she doesn’t stop crying, John’s going to do something humiliating like break down and cry with her. More so if Rodney doesn’t twist back around and stop giving him a look John’s seen on a hundred girls' faces and never wants to see on Rodney’s again.

“Do you really?” There’s too much vulnerability to maintain the heated pink of anger on Rodney’s cheeks, but his voice still snaps with dismissal. “Want me to change back? Because here I thought you’d gotten used to having a woman to sleep with, again.”

John clenches his teeth until his jaw aches, lips swallowed back into a thin line. He desperately wants to say that this is the first time Rodney’s acted like a woman, so hey, maybe he _is_ sleeping with one.

He doesn’t, though. Uses every bit of military training he’s ever received to mute the words to nothing. He can’t do it for the sentiment, though. Why did Rodney have to pick now to act like a girl? He doesn’t need this, not with Teyla still crying, lusty sobs that ache with exhaustion, and Rodney feeling right and wrong both against him.

Rodney turns his head away, a tight bunch of hair brushing against John’s jaw. He’s long lost the battle to get Rodney to wear it down, just to see—except once. Once when Rodney did wear it loose and curling around his shoulders with the moonlight making his lips dark, his eyes glittering and bright, body completely exposed as he rode up and down on John’s cock, John’s hand cupping his breasts, the slight swell of his lower belly, the flare of hips that went out instead of tucking in, seeking out and touching all the differences.

Which was, as a matter of fact, the _last time_ they’d managed to convince Ronon to sleep in Teyla’s room alone, letting them slip back to John’s by themselves.

Huh.

“Maybe we should call Heightmeyer,” he says. Rodney starts at the non-sequitur, grunts, then taps his radio. He’s been seeing her every other day—although according to Rodney it’s not much different from their usual sessions—so it makes sense that he calls.

John spares a moment to worry that they’re in _his_ room, then dismisses it. Everybody knows they’ve been bunking together. Usually in Teyla’s room, amber and tiny with the extra beds and a mountain of hers and Rodney’s new clothes, but the location probably won’t matter much.

“She won’t stop crying,” Rodney states, flat and exhausted, like Heightmeyer can’t hear Teyla over the comm. “She’s been crying for _hours_ , I am ready to kill myself, Kate, nothing is working, not even the Colonel singing her that terrifyingly out of tune lullaby that usually never fails, and so help me if you don’t tell me how to make her stop, _I’m_ going to start crying which only goes back to the whole suicide thing—” Rodney squeaks, his air suddenly cut off from an arm tight and unyielding around his stomach, and turns around to glare at John as he finishes, almost shouting, “ _because I will go utterly insane and take everyone with me.”_

John makes a kissy-face. 

He can’t help it. Rodney looks genuinely crazy, eyes bloodshot, lips puffy from where he’s been biting them, panting like he’s run a race... it’s _funny_. Rodney’s always funny to him, even when he wants to strangle the bastard for being an egotistical ass.

It’s why they work. Because Rodney gets even more furious, stoked like an angry bellows—before dissolving into a snicker. A giggle, really, but it was a snicker before and it will be again, so snicker it remains now. _You are a stupid, stupid jerk_ , he mouths.

John can hear Heightmeyer talking, something about kids being overly exhausted and just needing the release, nothing they could do, but he’s not really paying attention. Rodney’s still angry, still upset and way, way too vulnerable for _Rodney McKay_ , but he’s not about to let himself fall into some weird, female-spiral where he’d start questioning everything John had ever done and, god forbid, ask if his ass is getting fat. 

John’s dreaded that question since day one, because he knows what his answer is going to be—yes, please.

“Rodney?” A lot of people, Kate included, get around the pronoun issue by using Rodney’s name to the point of ridiculousness. It annoys both of them. “Rodney, are you still there? Doctor McKay?”

“Yeah, yeah, Kate, I’m here, sorry. Got a little distracted. So, basically, there’s nothing we can do?”

Oddly, John finds he’s okay with that. He still wants to rip out all his hair or go on a run to the mainland, snatching up every toy he can find, _anything_ , but Rodney’s getting that look in his eye—the one that says he’s on exactly on the same wavelength as John and yes, yes, that’s perfect, he knows just how to do it, whatever it is, and it’ll be awesome, really—and there really isn’t anything they _can_ do, anyway. Not for Teyla, who’s tired and stressed, and would like very much to be an adult again.

He’s heard Rodney say—often—that he got the worse end of their transformation deal. John doesn’t think so. Rodney is still himself, he can still do almost all the things he did before with only very, very few exceptions and those are manageable ones. Teyla... 

Teyla is a _child_. She can’t control herself in any appreciable form and Teyla has always been about the control of self, accepting that which cannot be changed, modifying and perfecting what can. John winces when he puts it in those terms: no wonder she’s crying.

So, really, there’s nothing he can do for her that Radek and Lorne and the team due to step out two days from now aren’t already doing.

But Rodney... there are lots of things he can do for him.

“Thanks, Kate,” Rodney’s saying, distracted but no longer quite as manic as before. “Yes, I’ll call you later if I need to—and, oh, come on, of _course_ we already called Carson, did you really think we were that stupid? Nevermind. McKay out. Well. That was utterly—what? Sheppard, why the hell are you grinning like that? You know it makes you look like Krusty the Clown, and really, we don’t need to give Teyla _more_ reasons to cry, do we?”

Manfully ignoring the Krusty comparison—he does not!—John glances down just in case. Yup, one very cranky three year old, still crying herself sick—which actually reminds him. She _could_ make herself sick, even start choking, and he’s giving her ten more minutes of crying before he just dumps her in the shower. She could probably use a break as much as he can; her face has to be raw, her throat sore, by now.

But she’s too lost in her tears to be anything but oblivious to pretty much everything around her.

He can work with that.

“You know how I am about worst-case scenarios, right?”

Rodney goes cross-eyed, trying to keep Teyla on his lap and glare at John at the same time. “You’re what about _what?”_

“I got something.” Something he’d intended to trot out as a welcome-back-Rodney’s-dick gift, but this is even better. “Give her here, then go check in my closet, where I put those things.”

“Oh yes,” Rodney grimaces, wincing as his stiff body protests each movement, “the closet where you put ‘those things’. Because that’s absolutely not a cliché.”

Teyla doesn’t even notice Rodney’s gone, just snuggles into John with a wail. Five more minutes should time it just about right, actually, which is good. She’s not going to notice a bomb going off right then, but even John has limits about what’s appropriate in front of a child, no matter what she might know as an adult. Satisfied he’s got some kind of plan, John looks up to see: Rodney.

Holding a dildo. A fairly large, perfectly rendered, _squishy_ dildo, the kind meant to mimic real humans. It did a piss poor job of it, but John figures he can use that to his advantage, too. He puts on his smarmiest, worst leer, the one that never fails to send Rodney into hysterical laughter.

Unconsciously lowering his voice, he says, “You do remember how much I like being fucked, right? Not a chance am I giving that up. Now, I’d rather have the real thing, which I definitely _will_ , two or three days from now, but until then... look in the bag. You’re missing a piece.”

While Rodney’s back is turned again, John picks Teyla up and carries her over to the bathroom. Dumping her in the shower, he flicks the water on lukewarm—he doesn’t want to make her sick, and Atlantis thinks ‘hot’ means ‘scalding’—letting it run all over her clothes. She _shouts_ , hiccuping five times in quick succession before calming into a shaky, furious glare. 

“ _John_ ,” she says, exactly like the adult Teyla, then ruins it by sniffling and rubbing her eyes. 

“Are you done?” he asks, hands on hips.

She glares back, crossing little arms in a pout Ronon and Rodney swear she learned from him. “No.”

“Okey-dokey.”

It’s hard to turn his back on her, trusting that she won’t do something like slip and crack her head, but Rodney’s making high, squeaking noises that could probably shatter glass if there was any around. Even John’s picture-frames are plastic.

He closes the door half-way behind him, just in case—and is pretty glad of it. Rodney is standing exactly where John left him, caressing the dildo, unfamiliar hand moving in lovingly familiar motions as he moves it up and down the fake shaft. Rodney loves to touch.

A complicated series of straps hangs around his arm like black spaghetti with buckles, also getting their own occasional pat.

“You’re insane,” Rodney tells him happily. “And she’s okay, right? She’s not sick? Because we are using this _soon_ , possibly tonight, and we can pawn her off on someone who isn’t Ronon, right? I agree, he’s looking kind of haggard, but this is a _strap on_ —” the words are whispered, in deference to the half-open door, “—and we are not getting rid of this afterwards, because I have _ideas_ , and you know you always like my ideas, so shut up, this is _perfect_. Do you think we should take her to the infirmary? We could leave her there, not for long, just an hour or so, it’ll be fine, right?”

John smirks. Let it never be said that John Sheppard can’t buy—or, in this case, barter through as many untraceable channels as possible—the perfect gift.

From inside the bathroom, a small, unhappy voice says, “No infirmary! Ronon!”

* * *

The control room’s never been this crowded before. Elizabeth surveys the milling, chatting group, almost opening her mouth to demand non-essential personnel leave until they’re needed; it’s not like it’s a very big space, and there are a _lot_ of people here.

But if she does that, then by rights she should also go back to her own office. The office that’s an immense, insurmountable distance of maybe twenty feet down the hall.

She can’t do it. Hell, she can’t even unclench her hands from around the banister. How could she ask anyone else to go?

“They’ve not been gone too long, right?” Carson pats her hand with his often old-world courtliness, finding a convenient place to lean with her. One more reason to appreciate Atlantis over the SGC—much better balconies. “Just a few hours, now, and that’s still early. From the information Radek and I looked at, the transformation time’ll be at least double what it was originally.”

“Not that we had good intel on how long that was,” she says severely. That Sheppard and Ronon are just as upset about this is no consolation; they should have had better information, or waited until they could get it, not dashing off the moment Radek and Lorne gave the all-clear that the new programming would probably work.

Probably.

“D’you really think Colonel Sheppard would’ve risked the two lasses—” Carson’s the only one who gets to call Rodney that, and no one, possibly not even Rodney, knows why, “—if he wasn’t certain it’d be all right?”

Elizabeth looks at him. “You have met John Sheppard before, haven’t you? Of the legendary Operation This Will Probably End Badly?” He made the mistake of letting that gem slip one night, and no one’s let him forget it since. She thinks he’s a little pleased at how amusing everyone seems to find it.

“Aye, I know him quite well,” Carson chuckles, reaching out to pat her hand again. His palms are smooth and soft. “And I’m not worried even a little bit.”

She has to smile at that, shaking her head. “Of course you aren’t. Neither is anyone else here, right?”

Because _everyone_ is here: Radek, with a bushel of scientists as an excuse, Lorne doing ‘drills’ with several marines down in the ’gate area, even Heightmeyer, conversing quietly with a technician near the long-range screens. Everyone who can possibly manufacture an excuse is here, and not just because they wanted to see Rodney as a woman—with his hair down, Sheppard smirking at him every time the curls tossed while Rodney blushed _scarlet_ and muttered threats at him—one last time.

They’re worried. But they’re hopeful, too. The mood is one of restrained anticipation, like a group awaiting the arrival of the honored guest for a surprise birthday party.

A panel on the stargate lights up.

“Unscheduled off-world activation,” the main technician, who refuses to be called anything but Chuck, says. He doesn’t need to shout, not with the whole room watching avidly. Not that he would anyway. 

They’d gone alone. All three of them—four, really—had insisted they didn’t need any additional help. Rodney had had more to say about that, of course, accusing half of Sheppard’s men of leering at him, but that was for show and all of them had known it.

They wanted to go alone, so alone they went.

“Receiving IDC—ma’am; it’s Colonel Sheppard’s team.”

Elizabeth nods. “When this is over, if everything’s all right, I want this address locked out of the dialing computer.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Chuck answers, a certain amount of enthusiasm making her turn. He ducks his head, sheepish and very young as he unbends enough to grin at her. “Sorry, ma’am, it’s just that—we’ve been talking about it, a little, and we’re pretty sure none of us could handle it as well as Doctor McKay did.”

Amazingly, it’s _Carson_ who flushes at that, nodding guiltily when she looks at him. Laughing, she says, “I’ll make sure to keep that in mind.”

After so many hours of waiting, a few more seconds shouldn’t be a big deal. They are, because Elizabeth’s holding her breath—just like everyone else—her chest growing tight as the seconds tick by.

Then, with that familiar wet _whoosh_ , four figures step out into the gate room: three men, and a full-grown lady.

“Hello,” Teyla says, nodding to the breathless assembled. “Did you miss us?”


End file.
